Cause and Effect
by Alamo Girl
Summary: It was all a series of If-Then equations. If she was willing to jump off buildings, then why was he the one who always looked before he leapt?
1. Olivia

**Disclaimer:** I claim no ownership or rights to _Fringe_, its characters or plots that will be mentioned in this story. This is all for fun, and the fact that I am ridiculously in love with this show already. I'd rather not meet any of JJ Abram's lawyers.

**A/N**: This is my first attempt at writing for the _Fringe_ fandom. This will likely be a 2 parter, consisting of switches between the POVs of Olivia and Peter, with some hints at P/O UST sprinkled in. I tease, therefore I am. I live for constructive feedback, so please let me know how I'm doing writing for these characters.

Takes place directly after "The Cure."

**Cause and Effect**

"**Olivia"**

She wondered how long it would be until someone finally said something. Until someone noticed. Truthfully, she was hoping it would be longer; that she could sit in the relative safety of the darkened corner of Walter's lab for just a little while longer and be secure in her solitude. She needed to sort out her thoughts, make some sense of the jumbled chaos that kept her up all night last night. Most nights.

Unfortunately, as is always the case in life and in all other things, Fate had something different in mind.

Astrid entered the lab first, pushing through the double doors, balancing a stack of files with a latte perched precariously on top. Olivia watched her from her hiding place, seated in the row of chairs near Gene's stall. The junior agent set about organizing the files in her hand, sipping her latte with a mildly content expression on her face. She'd go about organizing the chaos of Walter's world soon, but Olivia could tell that these moments, when she had the lab to herself, were special to Astrid. God knows, the poor girl had to put up with enough of Walter's eccentricities throughout the day, and Olivia figured that was why Astrid had taken to buffing out the old scientist's brain numbingly brilliant observations with her own subtle wit. She had to have an outlet of some kind. And she had a way of taking the edge out of his bite, without tweaking a nerve.

Astrid and Walter were still feeling each other out. Just like they all were.

The junior agent remained oblivious to the other presence in the room and Olivia was grateful for that. Swiveling back around in her chair, facing away from the lab, Olivia leaned forward and rested her elbows on her knees.

She remembered the rhetorical question she'd proffered to Peter the day before: When did it come to this?

That question haunted her throughout the night, but it had nothing to do with shady pharmaceutical companies or doctor's malpractice on a colossal scale.

Now, it seemed to pertain to her life.

When did she reach a point in her life and career that she would risk losing her job to pursue a relationship with her partner? Olivia had begun to realize how much she'd sacrificed for her job – the husband, the picket fence with the 2.5 kids playing with the dog in the front yard. She damned Esterbrook one more time for dredging up _that_ dream – if she could even call it that – from the recesses of her mind. The Bureau was rarely willing to play second fiddle to its agent's personal lives. You could have one, or the other, but not both.

Being young and female in the FBI also meant one had to know how to play in the 'boy's club' – even in this day and age. But she didn't think it meant you had to be _better_ than all the boys… just that if you screw up, you're going to stick out all the more.

So, she'd played it tough, pulling herself up by the bootstraps and making sure that her superiors saw her for her abilities, her tenacity. That she wasn't another repressed feminist with a fire-arms fetish and authority issues.

_Although_, Olivia thought, with a self-deprecating smile, _all the evidence in my past would prove otherwise. _

The first person she'd told about her step-father was John Scott. It had taken her over a year of working together to open up to him about it. There had been a case, spousal homicide and kidnapping, and Olivia thought that it was the case that would finally break her. Make her leave the Bureau. And John had offered a no-strings-attached shoulder one night. It was the first time that she had seen her partner in a different light; a light that would cast a warm glow of love, and little did she know, a grey murky hue of deceit and heartbreak.

If she hadn't opened up to him, then maybe their relationship might not have gone too far. She'd have one less scar on her heart.

_My kingdom of pantsuits_ _and comfortable shoes for a crystal ball to predict _that_ outcome_, she thought dryly.

Surprisingly, John's reaction to her childhood story had been very similar to Peter's. He didn't try to hug her, or wrap an afghan of pity around her shoulders. He'd suggested a way to catch the bad guy, and it had worked.

Olivia didn't know what made her confide in Peter, because, quite honestly, she hadn't had reason to trust him very much since they put together this odd-ball team. She was pretty good at reading people too, and the signage written all over Peter Bishop read: _"what's in it for me?"_

He was there to watch over and interpret the scientific gobbledygook that spewed from his father, and possibly, make sure the old man didn't blow the college to kingdom come. Peter accepted his credentials with a promise to stay, but Olivia wasn't naive enough to believe he was staying for her. In the back of her mind, she wondered if there weren't a set of packed bags stashed in that beat-up station wagon; ready to go if Peter should decide to pull a disappearing act.

Perhaps that was why she'd never allowed herself to warm up to the younger Bishop. He was a loose cannon, unpredictable. And unpredictable meant dangerous. Meant that he could hurt her. Maybe even get her killed.

She'd had enough of that from men for one lifetime. Keeping him at arm's length seemed safest.

Perhaps she'd told him simply because she had been at the end of her frayed rope – out of necessity, not kinship. The case was horrific, another woman was being tortured; she was at a stand-still in breaking Esterbrook, and her birthday and all the shit that came with it had rolled around again. To top it all off, she'd had _enough_ of Peter's snark. Olivia was dangerously close to throwing all her files on the floor and screaming for the world to _stop_, she wanted _off_ this fucked-up ride!

The emotions flickering over Peter's face as she relayed the awful truth, that he wasn't the only one in the lab who'd had a crappy childhood, chipped away at the mortar of her inner walls. He _felt_ for her. He actually seemed to _hurt_ for her – for the little toe-headed nine-year old who picked up a gun and shot the man who was hurting her mother. As he confirmed that it was her birthday - with one look, one all-knowing, weary sigh - Peter Bishop had tried to shift some of the weight off Olivia's soul. She should be grateful for that.

Or maybe, he was just glad to finally find out why she'd been _Agent Bitch_ to him all day. Chagrined, Olivia knew she shouldn't have allowed the emotional wagon load of crap she dragged around to spill onto his shoes.

If she hadn't told Peter, then maybe they'd have been too late to save Claire. Some things actually work out in the end, she guessed.

But for all the warmth and empathy Peter bestowed on her that night in front of his hotel, for all the curious feelings churning in her chest as she sat, laid-open and vulnerable under those intense green eyes, Olivia still couldn't help the feeling of dread as she heard the unmistakable sound of Walter's voice outside the lab.

She had no intension of telling Peter that his well-wishing and gentle, altruistic favor were all for naught. The card came anyway. And Olivia's once strong wall, paved in steeled inner strength and self-reliability, crumbled a little. No one needed to know that silent tears of frustration wetted the cheeks of an FBI agent whose internal mantra was _'I can take care of myself'_ the night before.

The footsteps outside the lab's doors grew louder – she could hear Peter saying something, probably admonishing his father – and Olivia tried to school her features. She'd try to put up her mask, and hope the truth didn't show through the cracks.

"I was just telling those astronomy students that it is, in fact, possible to alter the gravitational pull of a moon, or some other large celestial object if, you can determine the exact gravitational mass of the object and thus, be able to manipulate it with the right technology." Walter was attempting to walk and talk to Peter over his shoulder, and nearly fell down the steps into the lab.

Olivia felt a smile crease her lips when she saw the bag of blue cotton-candy stuffed under Walter's arm. Astrid was there in an instant to steady the elder Bishop, reminding him that gravity would work just fine on _his _mass if he tried to walk down steps while turned around talking to someone behind him.

Peter ambled in behind him, coffee in hand and a smirk on his face. "Yeah, Walter, but the people over at _Star Trek_ haven't released the patents on that kind of technology yet. And your fervor describing what you could _do_ with _Trek_ technology was scaring the kiddies." Peter followed his father down the stairs.

"_Star Trek_," Walter exclaimed. "What a wonderful program! Back in the 60s, I used to think that show had such visionary ideas about the future… technology and such. It was quite a trip!"

There was a laugh in his voice when Peter replied, "Knowing how you like the _fun drugs_ Walter, I have no doubt that whole _decade_ was a trip for you."

Olivia bit her lip to keep from laughing. Some of the things Walter knew would make science fiction writers check into their own psych wards.

She watched Walter shuffle toward his lab table, fiddling with paperwork and glass pipettes as he went, with Astrid close on his heels to keep things from being knocked on the floor.

"Oh," he said, turning toward the junior agent, "I have some wonderful cotton candy here, Asteroid, would you like some?"

Shaking her head, Olivia closed her eyes and grinned, causing the muscles in her face to ache. It had been so long since she smiled, it seemed.

"Oh God, _Walter_. I really hope I didn't just hear you call _AS-TRID_," Peter enunciated her name very slowly and succinctly, "…Asteriod. Geeze."

"Yep. That's what you heard," Astrid confirmed, but Olivia could hear the amusement in her voice.

"What? I was close…wasn't I?" Walter asked, oblivious.

"Sure. You were close." Peter chuckled under his breath.

He really had a nice laugh, Olivia realized. And while she knew how Walter could try the patience of Job, she was glad to see Peter lightening up a little. His admonishments had softened lately, losing the frustrated animosity they once held. And that seemed to do wonders for Walter's moods.

Olivia leaned back in her chair and rearranged the papers in her lap. Everyone seemed to be falling into their assigned places in the team. But _seeming _and actually _being _are two separate things. She still wasn't completely sure that Peter wasn't just sticking around to see if something came up that would benefit him down the road. A man with debts to mobsters named Big Eddie always had a system in play, a back-up plan to fall on.

She wasn't entirely sure that Broyles wouldn't yank her off this project for good if she stepped over his thin line of rules and regulations. She wasn't sure that Walter wouldn't suddenly remember everything and prove what he was _really_ capable of. That thought alone was more terrifying than anything the Pattern could come up with.

If everything seemed to be going well _now_, then _when_ was it all going to blow up in her face?

"Olivia?"

His lowered voice snapped her out of her thoughts. She looked up to see Peter standing over her, coffee cup still in hand, and a quizzical look on his face. She watched as the curiosity in those green eyes melted into concern.

God, she didn't think she could take that look from him anymore. It was dangerous. Made her feel exposed. For Peter Bishop – genius, nomadic loner, secretive, and generally hid his feelings behind his wit – to look at Olivia like she was about to turn to dust at his feet…her mask must have _craters_ in it instead of cracks.

_Get moving, Liv_. "G'Morning," she stood up abruptly, offering a smile to reassure him. The events from the night before showed through on his expression. The last thing she wanted was to rehash all that again. "Walter didn't fall asleep in your bed again, did he?"

Peter tilted his head as if to say '_you suck at deflection'_. "No. Actually I fell asleep to the dulcet tones of Walter counting out all of the prime numbers…between one and about nine-hundred thousand or so. Very restful." He took a step toward her, and pinned her with a look. "You wanna tell me how long you've been here this morning?"

Olivia could see him studying her camouflage, looking for signs of weakness. It was her own fault really, she let him peek into the chest where she kept her past sealed away. From now on, it seemed, he'd try to pick her locks to get back in.

"Not long. Really. Just came in to get my paperwork on the last case together."

She started to walk past him, but froze when she felt his hand on her forearm, lightly holding her beside him. Peter tilted his head down toward her ear, much like he'd done just before they'd said their goodnights at his hotel the night before. His voice was soft, meant only for her, but tinted with worry.

" 'Livia."

Sometimes, when he drawled her name, it sounded like he dropped the 'O'. Somehow, it made it more intimate…which gave her a thrill of fear and something else she'd rather not deal with.

"Did you sleep at all last night?" Peter watched her profile, the line between his brows deepening with concern. "Did something happen?"

Olivia was careful not to look him in the eye. She pulled away, turning causally and answering as she hugged her files to her chest, "I slept fine, Peter." She tried to smile again, but from the look on Peter's face, it wasn't working. "Really. Everything's fine."

Saved by her chirping cell phone, Olivia nearly heaved a sigh of relief when Charlie called, telling her to return to headquarters because Broyles wanted to see her. She could deal with her superior. Broyles wasn't going to worry over her cracking cover-up, her over-burdened soul or the demons that came calling once a year like clockwork.

She nodded to Astrid as she left. Walter didn't even look up from his microscope to acknowledge her comings or goings.

Maybe Walter had a point that day back at St. Claire's Asylum. Maybe he wasn't as oblivious to things as everyone assumed.

Perhaps it was all just a matter of a simple "if – then" equation.

If she hadn't accepted the presence of the Pattern, accepted Broyles' offer, fallen in love with John Scott – then she wouldn't have been where she was, working with two geniuses on cases that blur the line between science fiction and science fact.

Every effect had a cause… didn't it?

**TBC…**

In character? Totally off? What did you think? Let me know and REVIEW!

Next up will be Peter's POV on things, so stay tuned. Huge and unending thanks to betas _**Celia Stanton**_ and _**Chichuri **_for putting up with my new obsession with _Fringe_. It's rather unhealthy, I admit.


	2. Peter

**Disclaimer**: Still claim no ownership, just dabbling in Abram's and Orci's sandbox.

**A/N:** Special and undying thanks to beta _**Chichuri**_, who speaks Peter so much better than I ever could. Sorry for the long wait, but it takes me a while to get things written out, and then polished up. I wanted to take a look at the change in Peter – through these instances – to highlight how far he's come since we first met him. I hope you enjoy it! Let me know how I did! May you all have a safe and Happy NEW YEAR!

Set between "The Dreamscape" and the end of "Safe"

**Cause and Effect**

"**Peter"**

Sitting in the row of chairs, idly running his thumb across the face of his cell phone, Peter wonders when she'll finally realize it. When she'll see that she can't do everything on her own. Watching her walk away, hair still dribbling water down her coat from that damned tank, Peter has an uncontrollable urge to trot up behind her and casually insist that he's coming along. Because she needs someone to watch her back. She's just stepped out of yet another psychedelic mind-fuck, courtesy of his father, and she's probably hiding the aftereffects in her normal self-sufficient way.

She needs someone there to make sure she doesn't lose herself in the need to vet out whatever "leads" John's memory gave her. She needs _him_. Peter's sure of it.

But Olivia had said no, albeit gently, and Peter is left to his own devices and distractions. One of which is currently on his cell phone – a picture of the address he'd followed Tess to. The muscles in his jaw tighten involuntarily.

Swiveling in his chair, Peter looks around the divider into the main lab and sees Astrid still at her computer, presumably sending the information Olivia had given her to the Federal Building. Walter is near the tank, jotting down God knows what in his journals and checking the different monitors.

Peter watches him for a moment, his body language and expression, realizing that Walter seems less enthused about Olivia's recent dream-walk than he was the first time. In fact, the old man was positively _concerned_ about keeping Olivia "with him" as he attempted to guide her dreams.

_Not concerned enough to say no_, Peter thinks, angrily. _Walter shouldn't have let her go back in. Hell, even Astrid should have known better than to…_

Peter halts mid-thought, his stomach twisting painfully as he realizes that his anger is pointed in the wrong direction. _He_ should have been there to talk her out of it. _He_ should have told her that there had to be another way, that he would help her find some different lead in Mark Young's case. _Anything_ was better than going back into that monstrosity of a deprivation chamber.

Turning back around in his seat and leaning his head back against the wall, Peter closes his eyes, and images of Tess's face swim to the forefront. Maybe it's naive, maybe he's just old-fashioned, but seeing a woman he cares about in distress touches something deep inside and sets it on fire. He remembers how every muscle in his body contracted at the sight of the finger-mark bruises on her small wrist, knowing who had put them there. He remembers following Tess as she met up with Michael, and the red-haze of cold fury and anticipation slowly settling over him that was broken by Astrid's phone call.

A lightning bolt of fear slashes through the visions and Peter hears Olivia's scream. Feels Olivia trembling in his arms after yanking her from the tank, her face contorted with terror and stricken with pain from whatever John chose to show her. She seemed so lost and alone those first few moments out of the tank, as her consciousness regained some clarity, and all Peter could do was watch while the guilt gnawed ravenously at his insides.

If he had been there, then…what? Would the outcome have been any different? Probably not. Peter has begun to equate the old phrase "unstoppable force, meet immovable object" with Olivia Dunham, and he knows that the only thing he can do most of the time is simply follow her lead and back her up. Hopefully, Olivia wouldn't be any worse off than she was the last time in the tank. All he could do was offer his help and his presence. He'll continue to remind her that he's there is she needs him, catch her eyes with his own and make sure she knows he means it.

Peter abruptly stands and strides out of the lab without saying a word. He has things to do. Michael's address itches in his mind. Peter's heart is already pumping faster in anticipation of meeting that stupid son of a bitch up close and personal again after so long. He ducks his head into the cold wind, pulling his coat tighter around himself as he walks to the beat-up station wagon.

Lingering thoughts of Olivia still fret the back of his mind, but the closer he gets to Michael's address, the more his building anger drowns it out. Olivia is fine.

Tess isn't.

* * *

Peter wonders again, for the umpteenth time, if he deserves his genius IQ. Because the mistakes he's been making lately certainly prove otherwise. It snuck up on him with the stealth of a cougar with a string of trashcans tied to its tail the moment he saw the uncertain fear in Olivia's eyes as she stood next to Walter in that bank and told them how John's memories were reshuffling the deck with her own. The bottom dropped out of his stomach right then, and it had nothing to do with the severed hand Walter was waving around.

Olivia _isn't_ fine. He'd convinced himself that her latest foray into the Tank of Wonders hadn't irrevocably damaged her. He'd allowed himself to believe that excuse so that he could indulge in a little "physical therapy" convincing Michael to leave Tess alone. He thought he could handle his responsibilities to both women. That one's needs wouldn't come at the expense of the other's.

How incredibly wrong he was. If he hadn't followed Tess that day, then he might have been there to try to come up with a better option than Olivia subjecting her psyche to the tank.

Peter stands, arms crossed over his chest, leaning against the lab table – while Walter rummages in boxes brought up from one of his many hiding places – and considers which would be better castigation: drinking himself into oblivion, or allowing Walter to wire him up again and flip the switch.

The knowledge that he probably couldn't have changed her mind, and that the outcome would have still been the same, doesn't help the guilt eating his insides any. Peter's not used to feeling like this. His usual mechanism is to pack bags and haul ass when things get this tough. That way, he doesn't have to see the fallout on people's faces.

Like Tess's. Anger bubbles in his stomach again as he thinks about Walter's seemingly innocent little quip about his nomadic lifestyle. He realizes now that perhaps Walter's barb hit a sore spot that had been festering for some time. Under all the self preservation and adrenaline of starting risky ventures, Peter knows that he leaves a path of damage and disappointment in his wake. He's hurt people, people he didn't mean to hurt. He's had to do things that have far reaching consequences, the aftereffects of which he usually never sees.

But every cause does indeed have an effect, and Tess brought that effect right up and shoved it in his face – bruises and all. That ripped the scab off the wound. Walter didn't know he'd poured salt in the right place at the wrong time.

If you sow the seeds, then eventually you reap the rewards.

Peter mulls over the acidic aftertaste of his 'rewards' and thinks about Tess's warning. Every molecule in his body has been honed to heed her advice – to leave before the shit hits the fan – and yet, he can't. The Old Peter would have picked up and left a long time ago, left Olivia to her investigations and dumped Walter back at St. Claire's. He realizes, with dawning clarity, that the Old Peter would have seen the writing on the wall the minute Tess called his cell phone, proving that he could be found.

He feels a twinge of pain as he clenches his fists subconsciously, and when he looks down at his knuckles, the still-red cuts remind him of the lengths he went to in order to protect Tess. Michael damn-sure got the hint, but he also got confirmation that Peter was in town. Accessible. And no doubt Michael has spread the word by now. Fuck.

_Cause and effect, Peter…_

Peter brushes off the now glaringly obvious misstep, because there isn't much he can do to change it. He'll deal with the blowback when it comes. He has work to do…for Olivia. She needs his help, and he'd promised to be there for her. How often has he made that promise to a woman – to anyone – and actually meant it? He strains to remember an instance, but keeps coming up blank. If he'd made promises before, they'd been poisoned with the underlying truth that when the going gets tough, Peter Bishop gets going.

There's a nervous twinge in his chest when he starts to realize that Olivia Dunham, the Pattern and his father have somehow killed the Old Peter. And the new one left in his place is hanging in limbo. Like a fly in amber he can neither go back to the way things were, nor move forward without questioning himself. He's spent so long in the world of 'every man for himself' that this new gig of trust and mutual reliance is a coat that feels odd, heavy and ill-fitted for his shoulders.

Olivia trusts him. And that breeds a sense of responsibility in him to make sure she doesn't lose herself to the Pattern, to her quest for answers to questions they have no business asking…to her own obsessions. She jumps off buildings, for Christ's sake! He has to work the angles before his leaps. Olivia would dive headfirst into an empty pool if she thought it would save someone. Her bravery puts any adrenaline high he gets from working a new job pitch to shame. Without asking, she's relying on him to watch her back, to make sure there's water in the pool before she dives in. It's a job he doesn't think he's ready for, and his current score card of success is falling pretty damn fast.

Walter spreads the toys out on the table, intent on some sort of demonstration, and Peter fights the urge to call Olivia and apologize for something that even he, with all his vast knowledge, couldn't predict.

* * *

He sits in the lab, the early morning light diffusing through the high windows, and wonders how the take-down of the bank robbers went. Olivia hasn't called, and while that in itself isn't unusual, Peter's anxious to see her. She's infested his mind over the last thirty-six hours, unrelenting questions without answers tumbling over themselves in his head like stones in a polisher, only he can't pick one out to inspect closely enough.

Why didn't he catch it sooner? He professes to be a master at cards, but he missed the subtle tells all too easily. Bits of John are seeping into a very fractured Olivia, and now Peter questions where one ends and the other begins. He thinks back to the bar, where he saw Olivia let her guard down for a precious short time. She morphed from Agent Dunham to just Olivia in front of his eyes, and Peter would be a lying bastard if he said he wasn't spellbound by the view. But who was he really enthralled with – John or Olivia?

The uncertainty of it all makes Peter's heart tighten involuntarily. Suddenly, he hates John Scott with a passion that surprises him. The man played both sides of the game – playing Olivia at the same time – and yet even in death, he still manages to pull people's strings like a puppeteer. He _still_ influences the game and keeps a stranglehold on Olivia.

Olivia's hushed words to John while she was submerged in the dreamscape – words that were private, intimate and never meant for prying ears – flood back into his memory, making his jaw clench again. Peter wants to grab Olivia by the shoulders and shake her. He wants to yell the thoughts that have never slipped past his lips.

_How much more of you are you going to give to John? After all he's done, after all you've seen, how much more does he deserve, Olivia? He's got your love; does he get your life too? _

"Grinding your teeth like that will wear away the enamel on your molars and undermine the tooth structure," Walter's voice snaps Peter back into the present. "While it's true that the enamel is the hardest substance in the human body, it can be worn away from acidic foods or subconscious grinding behavior. Like you're doing, son."

Peter frowns, wiping a hand over his face. "Thank you, Walter, for that peek into the fascinating world of _odontia_." He shakes his head, knowing he's been staring off into space and his body language is telegraphing his darkening mood. But no way is he giving Walter the honor of pointing that out.

His father pauses over his microscope. "You're stressed, Peter. Gnashing ones teeth is a clear indicator of-"

"I was _not_ gnashing my _teeth_, Walter," Peter huffs, but there is no real bite in his retort. "Go back to measuring the rate of radioactive saturation in the bank robber's arm. Olivia might need that information for her report…when she gets back." He looks up at the clock over the lab's entrance, then again at his own watch.

"Indeed," Walter affirms. "I should have those numbers by the time Agent Dunham returns from…wherever she is…"

_Yeah_, Peter thinks. _Question of the hour._

He's starting to worry. Olivia is more than capable of taking care of herself – he knows this – and yet, concern is worming holes in his carefully constructed guise of nonchalance. The Old Peter never let himself stick around long enough to feel like he belonged to anything. But this New Peter is grappling with the jarring truth that he has a definite place in this team. And that he likes it. Olivia has become a partner of sorts – at least, that's how he's begun to see it – and Peter doesn't like being left behind when he feels like he can make a contribution. She'd told him to stay in the car after they'd followed those ridiculous pigeons to that warehouse, but he figured he and his crowbar would be more useful circling around the back in case someone escaped. He liked it when she agreed to let him tag along to Emily Kramer's house, where he saw that sometimes Olivia needs a leash as much as Walter. By her side, he feels more than just useful. He feels … like he belongs.

Another glance at his watch and the coin comes out of his pocket. Rolling it smoothly over his knuckles brings a little order to his nervous, jumbled thoughts. Perhaps he should have asked to ride with her last night…

The door to the lab opens, and Peter's heart skips a beat, anticipating the sight of blonde hair and determined green eyes. But when Astrid's face comes into view, pinched with fatigue and concern, his guts freeze.

"Have you heard from Olivia today?" she asks.

"No. Why? What's wrong?" Peter's alerts have gone into Def Con Three.

"She's missing."

And in that moment, Peter realizes that life is a series of if-then equations. If he had been with Olivia, then she might not have gone missing. He doesn't care whether or not that statement holds water, they're the only words pounding in his ears, blotting out Walter's questions and Astrid's answers.

As he storms out of the lab, heading toward the Federal Building, another truism of the cause and effect equation taunts him in a tiny voice.

If he hadn't stayed, then he wouldn't care this much. But he won't let himself think through that particular logic.

Because he _does_ care. And finding her is all that matters now.

**END**

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Like? In character? Totally sick of this hiatus as much as I am? Let me know. READ and REVIEW! HAPPY NEW YEAR!

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